


Let It Through

by ssstrychnine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssstrychnine/pseuds/ssstrychnine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daenerys is Queen and Brienne and Jaime act as fools.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Through

The crowd is restless. Everyone thinks the Kingslayer will win, _wants_ the Kinglsayer to win. Even with his new titles, his new taints, Kinslayer too now, and a pardoned traitor beside. The man with the missing sword hand will always be a better victor than the ugly woman in blue armour. It’s something more too, it’s something like being reminded of Lannister glory in his golden hand and his golden armour and his helm hiding the worst things trauma has done to his face. Brienne wishes they had gone earlier, when the crowd’s blood was still quiet and the sight of Jaime Lannister wasn't enough to get their feet pounding and their throat raw with screams.

_Her_ blood is already boiling as she walks her horse out across the sawdust. Her anger is directed at Jaime of course, as it so often is, though she knows it’s futile to be angry at any of this. Not the crowd who pick favourites, not the man she will joust, the one she calls a friend and maybe something else too. She knows she is lucky to even be in competition, she is still so new, so alien. Like their young Queen with silver hair and dragons, like everything in Westeros. The people cling to Jaime because he is something they remember, even if the memories aren't all pleasant.

But Brienne grits her teeth and adjusts the tip of her lance carefully, avoids looking at Jaime, so far away. A toy knight on a toy horse. She won’t be swayed by the screaming crowd, she won’t give them the victory they want.

Jaime is in his element, enjoying the attention he so rarely gets now, and he has been goading her since they knew they would joust one another. More than usual. More than she expected. He calls her a knight and he laughs and she won’t let him know that it hurts her still. The Queen tells her she may be knighted yet, the first of her kind, but she isn't holding her breath. This is all a great jape, pitting the girl against the cripple.

“If you win, I’ll give you a kiss,” he shouts across the sawdust and the crowd roar their approval. He hasn't been like this in a long time. She thought he had _stopped_ this. Her eyes burn as the crowd jeers and she shifts the position of her lance again. Queen Daenerys gives the call and Brienne nudges her horse into a gallop. She smiles grimly as she slams into Jaime, the lance hitting the joint at his right shoulder. Jaime flinches, his golden hand fails, the reins drop, the horse rears and he throws down his lance to take control back with his left hand. Brienne wheels her horse around as Jaime struggles to dismount and the smile dies on her lips. He tears his helm off and his face is flushed red and angry and _ashamed_ and the crowd scream louder.

“Can you ride, Lannister?” Daenerys calls from her podium, her voice thick with scorn. Jaime doesn't reply, just kicks at the dirty sawdust and stalks out of the arena. “Brienne of Tarth, this is your victory.”

“No,” Brienne shakes her head. She dismounts, handing the reins to a bewildered squire, and leaves the way Jaime had. She is no longer angry, guilt is thick in her throat, and shame.

She goes back to her quarters first, reluctant to clatter around the Red Keep in tourney armour. She is unsure of what she’ll do when she finds Jaime. Demand an apology from him, or apologise herself. She forces herself to move slowly, to rub down her armour with sand and pack it away carefully. She wants to run to him and fall to her knees, she wants to run to him and knock his teeth out with the hilt of her sword. Instead, she dresses simply, she buckles her sword at her hips, and she walks.

Jaime has been given the White Sword Tower. It was a cruel thing to do, but it kept him his life. Daenerys has no need for a Kingsguard’s tower, she keeps her Queensguard closer than any King has theirs. So the white tower is kept empty, the perfect place for a disgraced former Lord Commander. His voice echoes against the stone.

Brienne knows she will find him there and she climbs through four floors of empty rooms to get to him. He stands in the centre of the room, sword held in his left hand, his golden hand lying forgotten on a table. His armour has been discarded in pieces and he’s dressed in a loose shirt, half unlaced, and breeches. He turns when she enters the room, raising the point of his sword to her throat. For a moment she really thinks he means to do it, and her own blade is an inch from it’s sheath before he drops his, a look of disgust crossing his face.

“It’s been two years, I still can’t hold it right,” he mutters. “Not to mention a bloody lance.”

“I knew where to hit,” Brienne says awkwardly. “I was not...honourable.” 

“You’re always honourable,” he sneers. Brienne blushes, scrubs at her hair with blunt fingers. She can see a purple bruise blooming across the right side of his chest, where she hit him. She feels slightly awkward about being able to see that much skin at all, though she’s seen more. It is obvious that, although he drops his sword and can barely hold a lance, he is not soft yet. She wonders how she can think him beautiful still, after so long.

“It is...rare,” she admits, a smile ghosting across her face. He glances at her, smirks, drops his blade with a clatter onto the table next to his discarded hand. Brienne looks at them both, the gilded sword and the gilded hand, and she looks at Jaime, no longer gilded, his hair half salt, his face lined beyond his years. 

“I wasn't japing with you, you know. It might have looked it to them but...” he shrugs.

“Japing...” she echoes, frowning slightly. “About what?” 

“You won,” he laughs, almost bitterly. “I suppose I shouldn't have shouted it like that. You've come to claim your kiss.” Brienne freezes, her hands clench and unclench, she grits her teeth so hard her jaw aches, she can’t think to speak. 

“It...it was cruel of you to say that at the tourney,” she says a full minute later, finally finding her voice. She comes out of stone and her skin floods with colour, she is terrified that he will laugh. But his face is strangely serious and his eyes are calm as water, green as grass.

“I am sorry Brienne,” he says, so sincere she can barely look at him. “But I _wasn't_ japing.” He walks toward her, and he is still golden under everything. Her hands dance at her sides, ghosting over her sword hilt like she can fight this, like she wants to.

“Jaime,” she says. And then he’s there, and it hardly works with her so uncertain and still and _taller than him_ and him with only one hand, but he’s there and he reaches for her. His hand at her jaw and in her hair, still sweat-messy from the tourney, his sword calloused fingers sparking at the scar tissue of her cheek. Her breath hitches, his eyes close and something clicks and the kiss turns from soft to raw. She pushes forward and he grins savagely against her mouth and keeps his ground determinately. Her hands dither for a moment before falling to his waist, tangling in the fabric of his shirt and his stays at her neck, her cheek, the stump of his wrist brushes her hip. He tastes like honey, she thinks giddily.

When they break, both are breathing hard and Brienne is flushed and trembling slightly. Jaime catches her hand before she can bolt and he grins at her like the sun rising and she wishes she could do that too. Smile like the most beautiful things in nature, especially now. 

“ _Well_ ,” Jaime laughs. She attempts to tug her hand away but he holds her fast. She is realising slowly what has happened and what that means. 

“The entire court will laugh at this,” she says. “It’s not...” 

“I’ve kept love hidden before,” he says, his voice flat, strangled with self-loathing. 

“ _Love_?” she shakes her head, a desperate movement, pulls her numb fingers from his hand. “It will be discovered, I am laughed at enough.” 

“We’ll leave,” he declares and his voice is steady and so sure she doesn't laugh even though she ought to. He steals her hand back, brushes his lips across her knuckles (her heart skips a beat, her lips twitch on the edges of a smile), grins at her like they can rule the world. “Go North, back to the wolf Queen.” 

“Sansa,” Brienne murmurs. She hasn't seen the new Northern Queen in almost two years and she would like to. She knows Jaime can see her wavering, and his smile widens and his thumb brushes across the back of her hand and she imagines the cold of the North, breathing in the sharp snow air, the wolves and the woods and the wilds. 

“The Queen would be glad to see me gone.” 

“To the North,” Brienne says. She can already feel her bones freezing, but Jaime’s hand is warm and he will always be golden and maybe the North won’t spit them out like it has so many. If they are together. 

To the North. 

**Author's Note:**

> Weirdly this started as a modern Medieval Times style restaurant AU which I might still write but...you know.


End file.
